


Hand In Hand

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: You find that Steve has a habit of holding your hand at every opportunity. Naturally, you can’t help but try to see how far he’ll go to keep that habit.





	Hand In Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to say; continuing to bash my head against a wall on everything else in my WIP folder, so here’s a fluffy little thing I did on a whim that turned out nicely. Thank goodness something did. Please enjoy!

 

You don’t notice until it’s already become a habit.

It’s not terrible, but at first it’s a strange realization: one of your hands is always ( _always_ ) occupied. With Steve’s. Right or left doesn’t matter; whatever side Steve is on, his hand is wrapped around yours. You’re not sure if it’s just a reflex, or if he’s always aware of what he’s doing. Steve is sneakier than people give him credit for, so you theorize that it’s more of the latter. And while it isn’t irritating, it is…interesting. Especially when you decide to start testing to see how far Steve will go to keep this new habit.

“Are you afraid of spilling?” Steve asks, amused, as you hold your drink in both hands while you walk.

“No; it’s just nice and warm,” you say and take a sip.

He frowns at your hands. “We should get you new gloves.”

You laugh. “My gloves are fine. Now let’s get going; I don’t want to miss the show.”

Steve looks lost, so you hold out your elbow. He takes the offer, hooking his arm with yours. It makes the hot drink a little more unwieldy, given how _big_ his arms are, but you carry on like normal and he looks mildly unsatisfied. When you finally finish your drink and toss it in the trash, he grabs your hand like he hasn’t held it in days.

You probably shouldn’t find it as amusing as you do, but…well…

Proper experimentation _does_ require repeated attempts.

 

He slips his hand into and around yours at every opportunity. It’s wonderful, really– his grip is light enough to be unobtrusive and when you really don’t want to touch he sometimes seems to know it instinctively, and when he doesn’t a light shake off does the trick with no hard feelings. Really, you’re glad you noticed it enough to appreciate it.

And since you don’t mind his sweet habit, you don’t want to train him out of it. That means the times you dodge his grip have to be random. And subtle– Steve is a smart cookie.

“I can carry that.”

“I know you can,” you say and pull the paper bag out of his reach yet again. He makes a frustrated noise. He _could_ grab it, if he really wanted, but he’d likely rip it in the process and send your new books tumbling onto the wet ground. Wisely, he doesn’t risk it.

“Why do you _have_ to carry it?”

“Why do you _have_ to take it?”

“I can put it with my bag,” Steve says and raises said bag. Which is held on the side opposite you, surprise surprise. “It’ll free up your hand.”

“What do I need my hand for?” It’s really hard not to smile. “Do you need me to look up something on my phone?”

“ _No_ ,” he says, scowl accentuating what he thinks of ‘the third wheel’ as he likes to call it.

Tech-savvy as he is, and vocally appreciative of all the things that have made modern life more bearable, you had always been baffled by his hatred of your phone– now that you’re finding out why, it makes this whole situation even more fun. “Don’t worry Steve; I am plenty capable of holding a bag,” you tell him.

“I know,” Steve says.

You think that’s the end of it. You should know better.

He slips the bag away from you with a sleight of hand. “Steve,” you say, using your exasperation to hide your amusement.

“Isn't it nice to have your hand free?” he says, stubbornly forging ahead.

“Mm hm,” you say, disbelieving, but you leave it be. Sure enough, your hand is free for six (you count) whole seconds before Steve wraps his hand around yours. Not so free, maybe, but he is warm, and this allows you to press into his side for the rest of the walk home.

 

Now that you’ve got the hang of it, knitting is actually fairly relaxing.

“What are you doing?”

Well, for one of you.

“Playing an intricate game of “Cat’s Cradle,’” you say, not looking up.

“Does that even count as a game?” he asks and sits next to you.

“I don’t know,” you say but keep on working. Fixing a dropped stitch can be a real pain in the ass and you want no part of it.

It takes a few minutes for Steve to speak up. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Not right now,” you say. You flash him a smile. “You can if you want. I’ll be in in a few.”

Steve huffs like that’s ridiculous. He lies down, head in your lap, and curls up to fit in the small half of the couch. Talk about ridiculous; he’s like the human equivalent of those huge dogs that think they’re Pomeranians. Still, he _looks_ comfortable, so you ask, “Do you need me to move over?”

“No. I feel fine,” he says.

You go back to your activity and he drifts off. Soon your eyes start to drift too, and between the warmth of your boyfriend and the soothing sound of the TV volume set to low, there’s nothing to discourage you from taking a quick nap. You can’t move, but you set your needles and yarn aside and lean your head back into the soft, plush cushion and fall asleep almost immediately.

When you wake up your hand is in Steve’s, resting close enough to his mouth for you to graze his lips with your thumb. You don’t, but you do wonder if Steve took your hand, or if you gave it to him.

 

Steve is plotting. It’s harmless, and futile, so you let him.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to drop it.”

Mostly. Teasing is a time-honored tradition, even in your relatively short (so far) relationship.

“I know,” Steve says, flushing red and looking away.

However you do actually have a good reason for your hands to be full so you don’t know why he’s bothering. You’re both on your way to Sam’s for a potluck with him, Bucky, and Natasha. You’re carrying the dessert and Steve is carrying an appetizer that he also has to use both hands for. Even if he could wheedle away your package, he’s too occupied.

You get a glimpse of what he’s thinking (and a heart attack) when he holds the too-big-for-that platter in one hand. “I could–”

“Steve Rogers you carry that with _both_ hands.”

He scrambles to obey and you cringe at your own sharp tone. After a few moments your heart settles back down. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to snap.” You blow a hands-free kiss at him. “We’re almost there, so let’s…get there intact, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, laughing. He walks closer to you. “Don’t worry; it’s good and they’re going to love it.”

“And if they don’t, we have pizza,” you say just as you arrive at Sam’s door.

The food is a hit and Steve’s friends _are_ yours too by now, so it’s a good night. His hand snakes into yours as soon as it’s no longer occupied by food and you relinquish ownership of it for the rest of the evening. At one point Natasha looks at your linked hands and then at you. You shrug your other shoulder and then place your attention back on the story Bucky is telling. After all, it’s not like you mind this hand-holding thing. More of the opposite, really.

 

Living in New York has it’s…challenges.

Even more so, now, with enhanced and mutants and then your typical evil genius occasionally coming out to make a power play. Most of these are easily dealt with and they don’t happen _that_ often. When they do, Steve tries to give you a quick warning of where to avoid.

Today, though, you had been in a meeting when his text came through and so here you are, trying to keep your head low as you stumble over rubble to get to safety like a bunch of other scattered, panicked people.

Then there’s an explosion from behind and above, small rocks pelt you, and then there’s blinding pain in the back of your head.

 

You wake, aching and exhausted, in a bed, even though you don’t remember going to sleep. Your head hurts something fierce and so you start to look (carefully) around a really nice hospital room.

Something weighs heavy in your hand. You know what it is, even before you turn your head (again, carefully, _ow_ ) to see Steve sleeping on your bedside, his hand resting on top of your upturned palm. You curl your fingers to hold his hand and he stirs, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks as sleepy blue eyes grow steadily more alert.

He opens his eyes fully and whispers your name, every syllable heavy with relief.

“Hey,” you croak. He helps you take a drink of water and you sigh through a clear throat. “Are you okay?”

“ _You're_ the one who got clocked by a building,” he says and trails gentle fingers over your forehead. Even that’s too much pressure, though, and he takes his hand away. “Sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Um…not great.” You smile at him and, because lifting it is too much of a challenge right now, you squeeze his hand. “But I woke up in a good way, at least.”

“Really?” Steve looks at your hand in his. “I wasn’t sure…I was starting to think maybe you didn’t like it.”

Your smile broadens. “Yeah, sorry. I was messing with you.”

You watch his face as he goes through the past couple weeks– and when he gives you A Look, you laugh. Doing that jostles your head though, so you don’t laugh for long.

“Easy,” Steve says and rubs up and down your arm with his free hand.

“I’m fine, Steve.” You shut your heavy eyes. “I am curious though– why the hand holding?”

You can feel him shrug. “I just like the way your hand feels in mine.”

You smile. “So do I.”

“Good.” He leans in and places a _very_ light kiss to your cheek. “Now get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

You fall asleep to the feeling of both of your hands being held gently in both of his.


End file.
